I'll Be There
by katydidit
Summary: Mr Monk Gets Stuck in Traffic, from a different point of view.


**I'll Be There**

**Yet Another Natalonk By: **

**Katydidit**

AN: I don't own them. This should be common knowledge by now. Anyway, this takes place during Mr. Monk Gets Stuck in Traffic and contains major spoilerage, so if you haven't seen it, you're not going to want to read this. Other than that, have fun.

"I hope it didn't get wrinkled in the accident."

Aggravating doesn't even begin to cover it. Mr. Monk climbs out of the car to go recover his (clean and unwrinkled, thank you very much) shirts, leaving me to glare at the road through the windshield. I get out after a moment, and go around to him. He's standing there in his shirtsleeves, clutching his jacket and looking around uncomfortably.

"Mr. Monk, are you going to change or not?"

I must have scared him, because he twitches and spins around at the sound of my voice. He's pale and panting, and for a moment, I worry that he actually did get hurt in the accident. What if his lung collapsed or something? He has a hard enough time breathing the germy San Francisco air as it is. "What's wrong?"

"I—I—I can't…change. The people…anyone could see."

I fight back a groan. He can't be serious. In the middle of all this chaos, he won't change his shirt because he's afraid that someone might see him? I sigh and take his jacket from him, shaking it out to hold it up in front of him as a shield.

"W-what are you doing?" he demands, backing up as though to get away from me. Like I'm going to lunge at him and tear the shirt off of his body myself. Please.

"Change your shirt, Mr. Monk," I say, careful to keep most of my frustration hidden. No sense freaking him out right now. "No one's looking, and even if they are, the won't see anything, because I'm going to hold this in front of you."

He still looks uncomfortable, but I must have convinced him, because as I hold up his jacket, I see his arms move, as though he were unbuttoning his shirt. His shoulders shrug a little, and I hear fabric rustling. He's now shirtless, and a very small, very childish part of me wants to giggle. But I know he's about to die of embarrassment anyway, so I suppress it. He stops moving, and his troubled eyes meet mine over his jacket.

"What is it now?" I ask, exasperation growing once more.

"My shirt is in the trunk."

"It is. Why don't you get it so you can put it on?"

"I'd…have to turn around," he says, as though this explains everything. He crosses his arms protectively in front of his chest, in case I've developed x-ray vision somewhere along the line, I suppose, and continues. "What if Julie…sees me?"

"Mr. Monk, she's not going to see you." But he's still not moving. I groan and wrap the coat around his chest, holding it in place as I reach around him to retrieve that damn shirt. My wrist is really starting to hurt, and it's becoming a struggle just to hold up his coat. Not that he cares. Finally, he's finished, and he takes his jacket back, meandering away. No 'thank you, Natalie' or anything. Men. With a roll of my eyes, I get back into the car, where my poor daughter sits with her (I imagine) tortuously full bladder.

"Mom, are you okay?" she asks. At least one person cares. I try to smile reassuringly, nodding as I cradle my wrist to my chest.

"What about you, sweetheart?" I ask. "Doing okay?"

"I really have to go." Her voice is strained: she's really trying her hardest to be mature about this. I've known the feeling—I feel terrible for making her hold it in for so long. Who knows how far the next rest stop is: or how long it'll be before we get moving again.

"You could go..., in the ditch thing over there. It's no Porta-John, but…"

"Mom," my daughter interrupts, disgusted. I shrug, wishing, like any mother, that I could do something more to help her.

"Then why don't you go find Mr. Monk? I'm sure he'd be glad to help you find a bathroom."

With a sigh of frustration that nearly rivals my own, Julie gets out of the car and heads off in the same direction my boss has taken. "Be careful!" I call out the window, accidentally waving my hand at her. The pain is intense and immediate, and I groan as I climb out of the car, walking down the highway.

I don't know what it is I'm looking for, exactly, until I see the car with the cooler. "Excuse me," I say, obviously interrupting some sort of teenage party. "Could you spare some of that ice?" The girl in orange looks down at me sympathetically.

"Sure," she says, as I begin to fill my towel with the blessed ice. "Want a beer?"

I decline—these kids hardly look old enough to drink, anyway. I press the towel to my arm as I'm walking away, and have to lean against the car as yet another wave of pain washes over me. I briefly reconsider the previously-offered alcohol.

"I'm sorry," I say, returning to the girl. "Could you do me a favor?"

"Yeah, what is it?" She looks concerned, but it could just be an effect of the beers she's perhaps already consumed.

"There's a man out there somewhere, wearing a brown suit. He's probably with a little girl in a field hockey uniform. His name is Adrian Monk—could you go get him—tell him that Natalie wants to talk to him?" My breath hisses through my teeth as a boy jostles past me on rollerblades (rollerblades! Who keeps rollerblades with them?), and the girl hops out of the car.

"Are you alright?" she asks. I nod and wave her off with my good hand.

"I'm fine. Just…could you get him?"

She nods and heads off, and I return to the car, opening the back. Maybe if I sit down, this throbbing will stop. Or maybe I can just pass out from mild shock and then I'd stop feeling it altogether. I quickly decide that the latter is a bad idea: wouldn't want to scare Julie. Pressing the ice to my wrist seems to make it hurt worse, but when I take it off, I can almost feel the swelling increase. I groan out my displeasure at this whole situation, just as my daughter returns with my boss, and a man who looks unmistakably like a lawyer. Wonderful. "Hey," I greet them, trying to keep much of the pain out of my voice.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Julie asks as I give her an awkward, one-armed hug.

"Yeah," I say dismissively, wishing I weren't lying. "I think I just sprained it or something."

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" Mr. Monk asks me, sounding scandalized. That's right, Boss, I want to say. I should have to tell you everything, because you simply can't be expected to notice things about other people. Especially not when you have ink leaking all over your shirt. Instead I glare at him, while his newfound friend snaps photos of my injuries. Mental anguish, indeed. He finally finishes, scurrying off to find a paramedic to further his case. Leave it to Adrian Monk to make friends with one of them.

"What happened up there?" I ask, wanting to change the subject.

"A man was killed," Mr. Monk answers, looking around distractedly. Oh my god. Everything shifts back into perspective. Why am I getting so bitchy about my employer not noticing I'd sprained my freaking wrist? Someone had _died_: it could have been my daughter.

"Mr. Monk says he was _murdered_," Julie pipes up. What a shock.

"Of course he does," I say, rising to put my arm around her again. "You know, Mr. Monk, there would never be any crime in all of San Francisco if you never left your house." I'm beginning to think that perhaps this man isn't as innocent as we think he is: that maybe he's committing these crimes, just to have something to do.

"I can't help it," he protests. "That man was murdered."

I'm sorry I mentioned anything. Oh well, I think, looking at my daughter. Maybe he actually did something nice for Julie. "Did you find a bathroom?"

"No," came the reply, along with a mounting aggravation at being asked all the time. I raise my eyes to glare at Mr. Monk. Right now, I don't care if he _is_ my employer: I do believe I hate him.

"Isn't she a trooper?" he asks, chuckling nervously. I try my best to hide the death glare that is just begging to be released, but I doubt I manage to conceal it all. "I would have found you a doctor," he says, actually sounding a little distressed at the fact that he hadn't noticed. But that's the point. He hadn't noticed anything. That matters more right now than his contrition. The stress from the accident and the realization that I could have lost my daughter make me snap. I can't be nice anymore. I won't lie to him.

"Mr. Monk, you didn't even ask how I was. It didn't even occur to you! All you cared about was a stupid ink stain in your shirt!" It feels good to let it out, even though it feels terrible to yell at this man.

"I was busy," he attempts to defend himself. "I was talking to the patrolman."

"I'm sure you were talking, because I _know_ you weren't listening. You never listen to anyone! You're just lost in your own world." What a shock. He's turned away from me again, and is looking off in the direction of the accident. I step forward and touch his shoulder. It's something I usually do to comfort him: to make him feel better. Now, though, I just want him to listen to me. For once in his life, I want him to just listen to me. "Mr. Monk, this is a very dangerous job. What if I'm ever in _real_ trouble? Are you gonna be there for me?"

"I'll be there," he says weakly, shrugging a little. Right.

"See, I don't believe you," I say, my desperation growing. I need to be heard, and I don't even know if that's happening here. "It's a two-way street, Mr. Monk. We have to look out for each other." I hate the look on his face. It's mostly confusion, as though he has absolutely no idea where this is coming from: as though it had never even occurred to him that his assistants might need help. I've heard enough about Sharona to know that she could probably take care of herself—not that I can't, or anything. I'm just sick and tired of him always assuming that I'm going to do everything like Sharona, that I'm going to just step into her shoes and let him treat me the way he treated her. But now, something in his eyes clicks into startling realization, and when he speaks, it's with more conviction and sincerity than I have ever heard come from his lips.

"I'll be there."

Before I can say anything else, Mr. Monk's new best friend reappears with a paramedic, and proceeds to yammer into my ear until he decides that there's someone else in pain somewhere, who is just dying to hear about how well they could do in court. I see my boss watching the paramedic skeptically, while he fumbles with his bag and his tools. Frankly, if he can find a way to make my wrist stop hurting, I don't care if it's Al Capone inside that extremely bright blue jumpsuit. But then again, when he starts pulling on my wrist, I want to shoot him in the foot.

"Oh, does that hurt?" he asks, sounding like a professional. Does that hurt. Let me stab you in the face: we'll see if _that_ hurts.

"Yeah!" I snap. I'd yank my hand back, if his fingers weren't closed so tightly around it.

"What about that?"

I mumble something in the affirmative, and he lets me go. Finally. He heads off to help other injured motorists, after telling my boss to stay here and to take care of me. Right. Something tells me he's _still_ more worried about his alleged murder than about me. But I'm beginning to realize that that's just the way it's going to be. My expectations were too high. Up until a few years ago, this man was deemed the "Defective Detective:" isn't it a little selfish to expect him to automatically notice absolutely everything about everyone around him? Still, it'd be nice…

He was watching the paramedic leave too, I realize, as I look over at him. "There's something wrong with that guy," he decides aloud. I have to roll my eyes.

"What, because he's empathetic? Because he cares about other people?"

My boss shakes his head, concentrating very hard on deciding what is wrong with the man that just treated me. I decide not to mention the fact that people like that are actually considered normal in this world. No use hurting his feelings: he'd ignore me for the rest of the day.

Julie comes back from wherever she'd gone, carrying a bag of ice. Blessed child. I'm raising her allowance. I press it to my newly-throbbing wound, putting my arm around her once more.

"Guess who's here?" she says with an excited little grin. She looks so much like Mitch when she does that… "Korn!" she said, without even really waiting for a response. "Their tour bus is up there."

"What's a Korn?" My boss asks. Julie looks at him in disbelief.

"They're a band," she says, now looking at me as though this were all some big joke that I happen to be in on. Oh well. Can't expect everyone to know who Korn is…though I'm sure Julie thought they already did

"Hey, you know what?" I ask, my voice cheerful again. "I'll bet they have a bathroom on their bus. Maybe Mr. Monk will take you."

He twitches a little, adjusting his tie. "I don't really think—" Oh, no, Mister. I don't mind that you don't care about me, but you are not going to neglect my daughter's needs.

"Maybe Mr. Monk will take you now," I repeat, sounding harsher than I know I should be. "Now. Right now!"

He jumps and ushers my daughter away, towards the big scary rockers. I shake my head as I watch them go, then lean my head against the inside of my car. I wonder what life would be like if Mitch were still alive. Would I be stranded here, on this stretch of highway while my boss took my daughter to go ask a rock band if she could use their tour bus bathroom? Would the accident up there have even happened? I mean, is my theory correct—does Mr. Monk inadvertently cause these things? But then, for some reason, my thoughts make their way more fully to this Adrian Monk. Sharona still would have left him when she did, right? Would he still be stuck in his house, measuring the exact distance from a trashcan fire before he put it out? I wonder exactly how big of an influence I've had on this man: but then, more frightening, how big of an influence he's had on me. That's definitely scary.

I open my eyes as I hear footsteps trudging towards the car. "Better?" I ask my daughter. She shakes her head, and I sit up. Are you kidding me? He couldn't even bring himself to let her use the freaking bathroom?

"Mr. Monk says to tell you that he was right about the paramedic," she mumbles, then looks up at me. "Mom, I was right there! I was finally going to get to go, but then he told me to hurry up." She groaned as she sat next to me. "I think I'm going to die."

"Sweetheart, you're not going to die," I say, though sympathetically, and kiss the top of her head. "I'm going to go see what was so important to Mr. Monk, and then I will come back and carry your lifeless body to that tour bus if I have to, okay? I promise."

She laughs and nods, and I slide out of the car, wondering exactly what could be more important to my boss than letting a little girl use the bathroom. "Excuse me," I stop a man in a highway patrolman's uniform. "I'm looking for a man who was probably here a while ago. He was wearing a brown suit…with curly black hair…probably a little annoying?"

The man nods. "Yeah, I know him. He's over there." He points before running past me, to direct several paramedics. I follow the direction of his finger, and my eyes come to rest on a squad car, with one familiar man in the backseat. Priceless.

"Hello boss," I say, and I can't help but allow the cockiness into my voice. He looks up at me, but doesn't say anything. "You know, the next time we go somewhere, I'm thinking we should leave a little early. You know, to factor in traffic problems…homicide investigations…you getting arrested."

"Funny," he says, sarcasm and discomfort dripping from his voice. "That's very, very funny. Listen—Oh, by the way, how is your…um…What is it? Your wrist, is it?"

It's a nice attempt, but it's become unnecessary now. "Forget about it, Mr. Monk," I tell him, having resigned myself to the truth. "It's never going to be a two-way street. I'll just have to accept that. So what's going on?"

My words have thrown him off, but only slightly, as he quickly recovers. "Do you see that dump truck over there? That's the one that passed us on the highway, remember?"

"Yeah. He wouldn't honk his horn. He must not be a very happy person."

He hurries on, ignoring my last comment. "And do you remember that man that was killed?"

"Steve Mariott." Maybe I can be some sort of good influence on him for now: if I show him how to listen to people, maybe eventually he'll begin to almost get the picture. At the very least, I'll be able to educate him for his next assistant, if he ever needs another one.

"I think he was already dead," he says. Of course you do, Mr. Monk. We've established this already, remember? "There's no other explanation. His car never passed us. It must have been inside the dump truck, then got dumped out in the middle of the highway."

"By who?" I have to admit: his enthusiasm is contagious. I find myself actually buying into his theory.

"That paramedic who was treating you." Oh. We're back on that subject again. I say nothing, allowing him to continue. "He's got mud on his boots that matches the mud on the tires of the Volkswagen. He's the guy." He points with his free hand, and I turn around. Indeed, the paramedic is digging through a pile of stuff, looking for something. "Remember the phone call he got? EGG."

"What's that?" I ask, believing my boss more with every passing second. Maybe there is something wrong with the man.

"Environmental Guerilla Group. That's the organization Mariott worked for. He's got Mariott's phone—somehow, they got mixed up."

"We've got to get you out of here," I decide. There's got to be something to his theory: he's never been wrong in the short time I've known him. I almost feel bad for doubting him. But the dump truck…the car…oh! "You know what? If that Volkswagen was in the truck, there's gotta be some evidence in there—maybe some tire tracks or something."

"Right," Mr. Monk says, sounding happy that I seem to finally believe him.

"Then I'm going to go check it out." I start to leave, but his protests call me back.

"No, no, no, no. You can't," he says. "Too risky." Now? He picks now, of all times, to start worrying? Come on!

"Mr. Monk, when they dumped that Volkswagen on the highway, they could have killed a lot of people. They could have killed Julie." I fight off a shiver as the thought of losing my daughter crosses my mind. "Don't worry. I'm going to be okay."

I leave him in the squad car, hoping to god that I wasn't lying to him. But things seem to be working out fine. I have no trouble climbing into the back of the truck, despite my one useless hand. In the corner, buried under a good amount of dust and mud, I find a scrap of fabric and pick it up. It's just the sort of thing I expected: printed on it in bright white are the letters EGG. I stuff it in my pocket and am about to jump out when I hear the engine roar to life, seemingly right under me. The truck begins to back up, slamming me into the wall. The air empties from my lungs, but I still manage to somehow grab onto the chains that hang down, to keep from flying out of the back of the truck as he speeds forward again.

Oh god. I'm stuck in the back of a truck with a murderer in the driver's seat, and we're flying down the highway to who knows where, at eighty miles an hour. I consider jumping from the truck, but quickly dismiss the idea as ridiculous. Even if I managed to make it to the ground without breaking my neck, he could see me: might recognize me. No, the better idea is to hold on tight, and hope he gets stopped for speeding or something. He swerves, throwing me into the side of the truck, and I gasp as my arm gets jostled again. Hell: maybe if I'm lucky, Mr. Monk saw the truck take off and might even alert someone as to my situation. Then again, I seriously suspect that the first scenario is more likely.

After what seems like hours, I finally see a police car on the horizon. They have to see me, right? Wedging myself into the back corner of the truck, I begin waving my arms frantically, trying to attract their attention. I look down for a second, and my heart drops as I realize that I'm locking eyes with the driver through the rearview mirror. Whoever is in that car back there, had better see me, because otherwise I will be seriously screwed. But I feel my feet slipping on the bed of the truck beneath me, and it only takes me a moment to realize that I currently _am_ seriously screwed, whether or not anyone else has seen me, because this guy is trying to dump me onto the highway.. I clench my eyes shut tightly as I finally lose my balance, and my hands grope blindly, searching for the chains; for anything to hold on to, really. My good hand catches the metal, and I'm able to breathe a small sigh of relief.

It is short-lived, of course, as I realize that the car is now right behind the truck: right under me. I tighten my grip, realizing that, if I slipped now, not only would I be the proud owner of a serious case of road-rash, but I could be run over as well. I think I was doing better when my eyes were closed. My hand, slick with sweat, is now beginning to slide down the metal, which feels like it tearing through my skin. Bracing myself, I reach up with my injured hand, hoping to add any bit of strength that I can. It works, but now the pain is becoming a bigger factor than it was before.

Gunshots.

I don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe the driver has a gun, and once he's killed the police officer in the car, he'll stop the truck and come around to shoot me. Letting go of this chain is beginning to look pretty good: I must have fairly decent chances at being able to at least limp away from him before he realizes where I've gone. Right.

More gunshots, now sounding as though they were right beneath me. A bullet hits metal, and I hear a quiet hissing, just before the bed of the truck begins to descend. Indescribable relief floods through me as I realize that someone from the other car had been shooting, and that they probably hit the hydraulics system of the truck. I hear orders barked out as the truck swerves to a stop, and my body goes limp as I pant against the dirty floor of the dump truck.

A pair of hands closes around my shoulders, helping me to my feet, and I realize that I'm shivering. "Are you alright, Miss?" An officer asks me, as he helps me out of the accursed truck. I nod as they drape one of those scratchy wool blankets around my shoulders, and a young paramedic bandages my wrist, much more gently than the first man.

"How did you know I was in the truck?" I ask one of the other officers standing by. "And who was shooting?"

"That would be Mr. Monk over there," he answers me. "On both counts. I'm afraid our delayed response is my fault: I didn't believe him until we found the body of another paramedic hidden behind several vehicles. He took my gun and tried shooting out the hydraulics on the truck, but he couldn't get a good shot, so he unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed halfway out the window. Very rarely have I seen such courage in…well…in anyone."

"Are you sure?" I ask in disbelief. "That man, over there—" I point at my employer, who is talking to another officer and absent-mindedly straightening his suit. "He took off his seat belt?"

"That's the one," he agrees, moving away to go talk to several other offices. I lean against the nearest car to watch my boss, seeing him in a whole new light. He'd meant it, hadn't he? When he said he'd be there, he wasn't just telling me what I wanted to hear. Not only that, but he'd leaned out the window of a speeding vehicle, _without_ his seatbelt, to save me. If that's not proof that he was sincere, I don't know what is. I shake my head, feeling extremely guilty for my behavior today. He looks up. Ours eyes meet again, and he excuses himself to come lean on the side of the car next to me. The officer returns, which reminds me that I still have that flag. I dig it out of my pocket.

"Sir, I found this…in the truck." I say, handing it to him. He looks at it with mild disbelief.

"Thank you," he says. I nod.

"Thank you," Mr. Monk repeats quietly, directing it towards the officer. Chills erupt down my spine, and I look at my boss with a shiver. He's still looking at the other man, but I feel his eyes flicker across my face after he walks away.

Should I thank him? Apologize? Both? I have absolutely no idea what to say, but something needs to be said. Thankfully, he breaks the silence first, rubbing his wrist.

"How's _your_ wrist?" he asks. I laugh a little, still in awe of the man standing next to me.

"Better," I reply. He doesn't need to know that it's because of him. Silence reigns again, but finally I can't stand this anymore. "You unbuckled your seatbelt?" I demand in disbelief. He looks over at me with that enigmatic smile of his.

"Two-way street," he says simply. There's so much to take in right now. What I'm feeling…I can't put it into words. But that's okay, because I think he already knows.

"Two-way street."


End file.
